And never ask for more.
That was what was riding Whip with long spurs, digging into his pride and conscience. If Shannon had played the age-old feminine game of baiting the marriage trap with her own honeyed body, Whip could have played the age-old masculine game of stealing the honey without being caught in the trap.
The pick whistled down, sliced through air and slammed into the unyielding stone. The shock of the impact rang in the silence and traveled up through the hickory handle with numbing force.
Whip barely noticed. Whatever punishment the mountain delivered was lost in the larger punishment of the vise of hunger and conscience that was squeezing him mercilessly with every breath, every heartbeat.
He knew that Shannon wasn’t playing the marriage game of tease and retreat and leave the quarry wild with hunger. She didn’t expect — and no longer even wanted — marriage with the man called Whip Moran.
What possible use is a man who puts a baby in you and then flits off around the earth until it’s time to come back and put another baby in?
I will never marry a man who wants me less than he wants a sunrise he’s never seen.
Whip believed Shannon’s words. He had seen the pain and bafflement in her beautiful eyes as she spoke, a darkness that couldn’t be faked by even the most accomplished coquette.
And Shannon was far from a coquette. Her honesty was as unflinching as the land itself.
Someday I’ll thank you for teaching me how to build a cage of sunlight. But not today.
Shannon might not understand why Whip would leave her, but she knew that he would. The knowledge was there in her eyes, in her words, in the fine trembling of her hands when she spoke about it.
Whip didn’t want Shannon to love him, but she did.
Now she didn’t want to love him, either.
Go away, yondering man. You don’t want my body, you don’t want my love, you don’t want anything but the sunrise you’ve never seen. Go chase it and leave me be.
Whip planned to do just that. But first he had to be certain of Shannon’s safety after he left.
The pick attacked cold stone, rang harshly, and retreated only to return again, even more violently. Yet no matter how hard Whip worked, no matter how much solid rock he reduced to rubble, the Rifle Sight claim showed about as much hope of gold as a mule’s hind end.
With a searing word of disgust, Whip stopped hammering and leaned on the pick handle. He talked to the ungiving stone the way a teamster talks to his animals, describing in harsh, profane, and inventive detail just how aggravated and disappointed he was with life in general and this chunk of mountain in particular.
When Whip ran out of breath, he wiped his forehead, set aside the pick in favor of his rifle, and headed back to camp even though there was still plenty of sun in the sky. He was tired of wearing himself out on a claim that a blind man could see was as useless as teats on a boar hog.
Rifle on one shoulder and coiled lash on the other, Whip strode down out of the grim, cold notch where meltwater collected and ran down to Grizzly Meadow. He couldn’t see the meadow from where he was, but he knew it was there.
Just as Whip knew Shannon would be there, waiting for him. She would heat water for him and he would bathe and pull on the shirt she had cleaned for him yesterday. The cloth would be warm from the sun and sweet from washing, but sweetest of all would be the mixture of caring and womanly hunger and approval in Shannon’s eyes when she watched him.
As Whip hurriedly descended the rubble slope at the mouth of the ravine, rocks still cold with winter gave way to unexpected beauty. Willow, stunted aspen, and wind-harried spruce clung in shades of green to every pocket of soil and warmth. The icy rill that flowed from the ravine was joined by other ribbons of meltwater until they became a small creek flowing into Grizzly Meadow. Wildflowers bloomed in scarlet and purple and yellow and white as rocky slopes gentled into a high mountain meadow.
Smiling, Whip emerged from shadow into the meadow’s pouring sunlight, expecting to hear Shannon’s voice raised in welcome when she saw him. But no cry of recognition and delight came. Frowning, he walked even more quickly.
I’m coming in early, but Shannon should be here. Hell, where else would she be/
Unless something went wrong. Another grizzly or…
A cold that had nothing to do with sweaty clothing went through Whip. Eyes as clear and icy as meltwater probed every shadow of the meadow.
Whip wasn’t even aware of moving until he felt the worn, hard butt of the bullwhip nestled in his left hand and heard the restless seething of the lash at his feet. His right hand was closed around the rifle, his finger was on the trigger, and his eyes were looking for a target. If he found one, he wouldn’t have to switch hands. He had learned long ago the value of being able to shoot with either hand.
There. At the far end of the meadow. Movement.
Smoothly Whip pivoted to face whatever was coming toward him.
Feminine laughter rippled through the quiet summer meadow, laughter bubbling as clearly as the creek itself. Suddenly Shannon darted out of the aspens with Prettyface hard on her heels. The huge hound caught up in three bounds and put himself squarely across Shannon’s path, forcing her to stop. Quick as a deer she turned and raced toward the aspens again. Prettyface followed, blocked her before she reached the trees, and chased her when she spun aside once more.
The game continued until Shannon was too breathless with laughter to run any longer. She leaned on Prettyface and petted him and praised him and hugged him until her breath came back. Then she told him to stay and tiptoed off into the aspens. Panting, his tongue lolling out in silent canine laughter, Prettyface stayed put and watched with alert wolf’s eyes while Shannon vanished into the trees.
Whip watched too, motionless, aching with feelings he couldn’t name.
A rock arced out of the aspens to land with a soft thump at Prettyface’s side. It must have been the signal for the game to resume, because the hound leaped forward, nose to the ground, tracking his mistress at a lope. Soon Prettyface vanished into the aspens.
Whip waited, smiling, guessing what was going to happen next; the stalk and the laughter stifled into silence, and then the instant of discovery.
A few minutes later he heard laughter and saw flashes of movement in the aspen grove. Shannon burst into the meadow at a dead run, her long legs moving so quickly that they blurred.
No wonder she got to me so fast when that grizzly cornered me. She and that hellhound of hers keep each other sharp.
Despite Shannon’s speed, she was no match for Prettyface. The hound caught her in ten strides, barred her way into the meadow, and leaped after her when she took off in another direction.
Whip laughed softly as he uncocked the rifle, coiled the long lash so that it could ride once again on his shoulder, and walked toward the girl and the savage mongrel that played like a puppy with her.
I’ll bet Shannon and Willy would get along like a house afire. They both have grit and the gift of laughter no matter how bleak things really are. Shannon could help with the kids and the cooking, and Cal could keep everyone safe. Even the Culpeppers aren’t dumb enough to take on a man like Caleb Black.
And there’s always Reno or Wolfe or both of them together if the fight gets too hard for Cal to handle alone. Shannon would be safe with them. She would have Willy and Jessi and Eve for company. Shannon wouldn’t be at the mercy of strangers. She would be with…family.
I could go yondering again and not always be looking back, wondering if Shannon was hungry or tried or frightened or hurt, needing someone and no one was nearby.